Climbing Ramabang E-Book

Gerry Galligan

• Herausgeber: Vertebrate Digital
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Gerry Galligan's first book is a bold and expansive travel diary recounting his assembling of a small team of Irish mountaineers and their attempts on unclimbed mountains and unexplored valleys in the remote corners of the Indian Himalaya. Getting there, the team see the hardships of the sub-continent, while in the mountains they experience storms, dangers and failure before ultimately, success and contentment. But it is when Gerry returns to the mountains alone and his subsequent experiences overlanding across Asia and Europe back to Ireland that we start to get a glimpse of the big, wide world out there. A world of temples, festivals, holy cows, Kalashnikovs, donkey herders, corruption, opportunists, stoners and sages. Gerry gives us an insight into the day-to-day lives of mountain peoples, the dysfunctional functionality of India. He finds charm and tolerance in Pakistan and a surprising openness in today's Iran. We travel across rural Turkey and work our way back to the efficient and affluent West, where right on cue Gerry meets his first breakdown on a German train. Climbing Ramabang; One man's understanding of mountains, myth and mayhem.

Leseprobe

climbing ramabang

climbing ramabang

One Irish climber’s explorations in the Himalaya and his overland trip home

Gerry Galligan

Vicarious Publishing, Dublin, Ireland

Contents

PART 1 The Spiti Expedition

One An Itch and a Plan

Two Culture Shock

Three With Gods on our Side

Four First Exploration. Let’s Not Go There Again

Five The Climb

Six Crossing the Divide

Seven A Strange Thing, Civilisation

PART 2 Explorations in Ladakh

One Nepal

Two To Leh

Three Politics and Protest

Four Back to the Mountains

Five Hassle in Herderland

Six Campcraft, Donkeys and Mandalas

Seven The Wisdom of Monks

PART 3 The Open Road

One McLeod Ganj

Two An Afternoon with Lhasang

Three Down in Lahore

Four The Sufis

Five Across Balochistan: Cameras, Camels and Guns

Six First Impressions of Iran

Seven History and Revolution

Eight A Question of Rights

Nine Damavand

Ten Transitions, Turkey

Eleven Europe. Another World

Twelve Looking Back

Appendix I The Ramayana

Appendix II Mountain Facts

Acknowledgements

Bibliography

In memory of

Patrick Galligan

and

Annalisa Pozzi

Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes

On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated — so:

‘Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges —

Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!’

The Explorer, Rudyard Kipling, 1898

Part 1

The Spiti Expedition

One

An Itch and a Plan

I could blame Roger McMorrow. It was his expedition that planted the seed of an idea in my head several years ago. He and his girlfriend Sara Spencer and two of their friends, all climbers, went to Garhwal in the Indian Himalaya in 2002 with the aim of making the first ascent of an unclimbed six-thousand metre peak. They succeeded and their mountain became known as Draíocht Paravat — Magic Mountain. To make the first ascent of a Himalayan mountain was a dream they had harboured for years. When I saw their photographs of vast glacial valleys and magnificent white summits, that same dream rubbed off on me. What a great thing it must be to venture to places in the world where no one has been. To be first to set foot on high untouched ground; to have the privilege of exploring unknown valleys and experience views not seen. To pioneer. What Roger and Sara did was special and I could think of nothing more alluring. So I swore to myself I would attempt something similar, somewhere in the Himalaya.

Adventure has never been far from my mind. I was born lucky, into a good home, the only son and the youngest in a family of six. My father was an engineer. He was a remarkable man, practical, fair-minded and devoted to his family. He was also mentally and physically strong, and had an interest in travel and adventure. As a young man after the Second World War he served with the British Royal Marines. Engineering as a career interested him. But the RM wouldn’t make a provision for this so, dissatisfied, he left the military and joined the Electricity Supply Board at home. A successful career followed where he worked in various power stations around Ireland. Consequently, as a family we moved every few years: to places like Donegal, Offaly, Kerry and eventually settling in Wicklow. When he could, my father took up foreign assignments; serving on power projects in Bahrain in the 1970s and Bhutan in the ’80s. I remember postcards of camels and Bedouins in the desert and Buddhist monasteries hanging precariously to cliff faces. And I remember the descriptions and stories he told us: of wealthy Sheiks and opulent life-styles; of Sharia law and grisly scenes of public justice; of cold, desolate Christmas days spent in the Himalaya on meagre rations — butter tea, hard-boiled eggs and Mars bars. I have no doubt that were it not for the demands of a growing family and his sense of commitment to us, he would have pursued an even more adventurous career.

I can say my father’s curiosity and adventurous inclination rubbed off on me. I had a happy childhood, mixing easily with others my own age, playing football and soldiers in the streets and fields. My earliest memory as an infant in the late ’60s, is of being rowed out to Gola Island, Donegal in a currach on a bright summer’s day. I can still see it; the lapping of the waves on the black hull, the oarsman’s blue woollen jumper, his white knuckles and black sideburns, and the family singing Báidín Fheilimí. Years later I would be drawn back to Gola as a rock climber. This time with a different family of friends, and all of us excited by the sea cliffs of that magical place.

As a child my first experiences of mountains came from my father’s personal accounts of being snow bound on Turlough Hill in the Wicklow Mountains for days, and of drifts so high a man could step over telegraph poles as if they were fence posts. Many Sundays outside the winter months were spent visiting my aunt’s cottage in the remote Corriebracks. I loved it there, rambling in the bogs and marshes, looking out for deer, stoat and other fauna. I savoured the fresh air and quietness, the smells of the earth and the different colours and moods. Often the evenings brought out midges which forced us indoors. The cottage had no electricity. As the evenings grew dark we would make tea on a gas stove and crowd around the fire listing to crackling John McCormack records on a vintage gramophone. Late into the night we would pile into the Volkswagen estate and head back over the Wicklow Gap home. I would lie in the back looking up at the stars, thinking about the events of the day and wishing for the journey never to end.

Primary schooling was enjoyable enough — a good mixture of lessons and sports. Secondary school, less so. I had academic ability, but little interest in testing myself or achieving much. At fifteen I couldn’t take schoolwork seriously. My parents grew concerned as exam results deteriorated. A change was needed. At sixteen I left day school and went to boarding school at Castleknock. The cultural difference between the two was staggering. The former made up of working and middle class boys like myself, the latter a club of privileged rich boys, many of them spoiled, with heads full of ego and ambition. The move didn’t change me. I remained an academic under-achiever. Moreover I felt I didn’t belong. These rich kids weren’t my kind of people. I considered myself left wing, and I still do, but here I was in a minority, outnumbered by precocious young capitalists. The school was all right. It had a swimming pool, sports pitches and a snooker room, while the food, though questionable in quality, was plentiful. However boarding school felt more like an internment camp than a place of learning. Freedom was curtailed and the daily routine was driven by bells. A walk to the village shop was forbidden and a half-day out to see family required a parental letter and the permission of the President. The confined living conditions didn’t help either. There was a lack of personal space. As a result, it was difficult for anyone to relax. As an institution, it was easy for me to reject it. During class-time I often found myself staring out the window, dreaming of liberation and adventures to far-flung places, reading books about adventure and escape. I counted the days left. I am of the view now as I was then, that boarding schools are archaic unnatural environments for any child or teenager to be placed in, away from society, family and friends. They should all be done away with. Time passed, I scraped some qualifications and left the place, thankfully with most of my sanity.

At eighteen I had no career ambition and little appetite for further education. All I wanted to do was be a loafer, wandering around seeing the world. Not that I could have remained at home. Ireland in the 1980s was a bleak place for many young people. A time of economic stagnation, with no jobs, no money circulating and few prospects of a decent future. Going away was the best option. But some skills were needed before leaving. After some parental pressure I did a two-year engineering course at a technical college, following somewhat in my father’s footsteps. Then a six-month welding course. After that I went to Australia and spent two and a half years in Sydney, working a variety of jobs: as an estimator, a design-draughtsman, a welder and a sheetmetal worker. Holidays were spent hitch-hiking around the country, up and down the east coast and across to the west. I met all kinds of characters, at work and on the road, and had great craic.

With a visa long expired, I returned home for a few weeks. Then I went to London and got a job on the railways, fixing trains on the overground Brighton to Bedford line. More enjoyment was had here, fraternising with railway headbangers. A rail trip around Europe followed this, roughing it from Paris to Athens. Then I went to America and travelled coast to coast on Greyhounds. Finally in San Francisco I tried to settle down. I came up with a five-year plan. The aim was to work hard and save enough money to return home and set up a business. No particular business, just something that would allow me to be my own boss. But like a lot of great plans, it came to nought.It was 1990, the first Gulf war was raging and the American economy nose-dived. Jobs were hard to come by. I moved from one low-paying job to another: security guard, crab seller, postal worker, to finally a dishwasher in a flophouse. Dispirited, after eighteen months I gave up and went home.

Life wasn’t easy at home. There was still a recession and I spent many months on the dole. Changes were afoot. I had lost my desire to wander. What’s more, my rough life-style had caught up with me. A new focus and direction was needed. I gave up booze and soft drugs.

The early 1990s saw a burgeoning computer industry. IT became one of the few areas that seemed to offer quality jobs and opportunities. I did a nine-month computer course and learned all about coding and networking. This led to a one-year contract with a bank as a systems administrator. Since then I have remained in the IT industry, working at various jobs in different companies around Dublin and have developed a reasonably successful career. Outside work, I took up running and circuit training for fitness. This led to an interest in adventure sport. I dabbled in sailing for a while, crewing for work mates in Dublin Bay races and dinghy sailing in Dun Laoghaire and off the west coast. Then one summer morning in 2000, while on a sailing week in Mayo, the weather was particularly calm. Not wishing to waste the day, a group of us decided to walk up the hill of Croagh Patrick. We were rewarded with a marvelous view from the summit looking out over Clew Bay and this inspired me to do more. Returning to Dublin I joined Glenans Hillwalking Club. Before I knew it, I was exploring the hills around Ireland, Scotland and Wales. From then on my interest in the mountains developed. I progressed to scrambling and then rock, ice and alpine climbing. Sailing fell by the wayside. The mountains won me over.

I had been hankering for a big adventure for years. The ones I had in my twenties were borne partly out of curiosity for seeing different places and peoples and experiencing new things. That was the 1980s, I had nothing to loose and everything to learn. But my world had changed since then and I had a good career. I was in my thirties, single, solvent, however the flame of adventure still burned. Mountaineering now offered the means. Also, it is fair to say that being in the hills took over a good chunk of my time, energy and interest. All holidays were spent climbing: in the summer doing routes in the Alps, in winter mixed climbing in Scotland and ice-climbing in Norway and France. Weekends saw me marching across the hills of my native Wicklow and climbing its crags, as well as tackling rock and mountain routes in other parts of the country. I loved being in the hills, and continue to. The freedom they offer, their space, beauty and colours, and the atmospheres they create draw me to them again and again. I wouldn’t say mountaineering had become an obsession with me, but I find it more rewarding than chasing other dreams; like making money, amassing possessions and striving for recognition and social success. That said, the mountains have come at a cost to me. Over the years personal relationships have suffered, girlfriends haven’t lasted and career progression stalled. But I can’t complain. I’ve led a good life since I stopped wandering as a young fella. But I know that voice of youth in my head is never far away. And sometimes it cries out, urging me on another adventure. Now Roger’s Garhwal expedition re-ignited that footloose spirit.

What if I organised a Himalayan expedition, of six weeks duration say, and at the end of it bought a motorbike and travelled home on it, solo? Asia to Europe. Now that would be a trip. The more I thought about it, the more I warmed to it and wanted to do it. I did some preliminary research and came to the view that to do both, an exploratory mountaineering expedition followed by a bike trip, was possible. It would entail a good deal of organising and paperwork, and a few months off work, but I felt I could live with all that.

2008 would be the year to do it. Naturally, for the expedition a team needed to be formed. Ideally a party of four. Four was a big enough group to absorb expedition costs without it being too expensive. It was a small enough number for quick planning and easy decision-making. Plus it meant two ropes of two for efficient climbing. I was keenly aware that whoever I invited needed to have four attributes: motivation, fitness, alpine experience and most importantly, compatibility with other team members. Everyone had to get along. There could be no room for disruptive types such as egotists, know-alls, mavericks and whingers.

I approached people I had climbed with. People I knew well. Darach O’Murchu was the first to sign-up. He had been thinking of heading to the Himalaya, so the idea was an easy sell. At 31 years of age, he was an electronics engineer who, a few years earlier, gave up this work to pursue a life outdoors. We first met in Dalkey quarry on a warm April evening in 2005. He was getting by as a cycle courier around Dublin. That evening I found him still in his courier outfit and holding a spare wheel. He had no rack or rope but was looking up at the routes with longing. I was without partner but I had a rack and rope. We hooked up and climbed well together, with both of us leading the same grade. It was the start of a partnership that saw us meeting regularly to tackle many of the quarry’s standard VS routes. Our techniques developed, our focus and fitness grew. So much so that three months after meeting, we climbed the Matterhorn’s Hornli Ridge together.

He moved to Kerry at the end of that summer and spent his winters in Scotland, living out of a battered van and getting the odd guiding job to supplement his mountain training. We continued to climb together afterwards, spending a few weeks each summer in the Alps, and winters didn’t slip by without us putting in a week or two on mixed routes in the Scottish Highlands. I admired Darach’s toughness and the dedication he showed for his craft. I reckoned any man who spent three winter months in the wilds of Scotland alone, in a tiny Suzuki van with no heat, electricity, water or toilet would be well qualified to put up with any hardship the Himalaya had to offer. I wasn’t to be proved wrong.

Another character keen to join was Paul Mitchell. I knew Paulie from the quarry. Although I hadn’t shared a rope with him there, I knew he was a talented climber. He had a lot going for him. He was young, fit, determined and also, being of sturdy Westmeath farming stock, I knew he would have the fortitude to overcome Himalayan discomforts. Paulie is a quiet, intelligent bloke, rarely in a bad mood and slow to anger. As a result most people have no problem being in his company. It was these particular qualities that stood out for me. He would make an ideal expedition companion, I put the idea to him. He barely gave it a second thought.

‘I’m definitely on,’ he exclaimed, his eyes brightening. ‘Where have you got in mind? When are we going? Who else is coming? How do we organise it? How much will it cost?’

It took over a year to get someone to fill the fourth spot. We racked our brains and came up with a list of a dozen or so people in the Dublin and Wicklow climbing scene who we thought would meet our requirements of competence and compatibility and who, like us, were keen to share the adventure. One by one we approached people. But to our surprise no one was willing to commit. Work, family obligations and the inability to take time off were the main reasons. Eventually I asked a friend of mine, Craig Scarlett, would he be interested? Although limited as a technical climber, Craig is a strong scrambler and I felt he had enough alpine knowledge and experience for what we wanted to do. Moreover he was known to all of us. The idea appealed to him. He mulled over it for a few days, checked his bank balance, negotiated with his employer, spoke with his girlfriend and then said yes.

A good deal of research had to be done and we all had many questions. I spent hours in the company of Roger and Sara, picking their brains on how they organised and managed their expedition; from permits and logistics, to agents, inventories and financing. Old hands in the Irish Mountaineering Club (IMC), Joss Lynam, Paddy O’Leary and Sé O’Hanlon, were also approached. But where would we go? Then once there, what would we attempt? The Indian Himalaya was the obvious choice, as Roger and Sara had the latest Garhwal knowledge. The other boys had done several expeditions in the Spiti region of Himachal Pradesh. Paulie and I set to task, weighing up both areas. We knew both places had many unclimbed peaks, so choosing objectives in either wouldn’t be much of a problem. Both places had their pros and cons. Garhwal has easy access, being only a day away from Delhi, but climbing permits were expensive. Spiti was cheaper for permits, but natural hazards such as high, unfordable rivers, were common. Debate followed. However the decision was made for us by the monsoon. An expedition to Garhwal needed to be outside the monsoon period of June to early September. However as Spiti lies further west in a region known as the Trans-Himalaya, it isn’t affected by monsoon. Hence an expedition there was feasible any time over the summer. Thus with June and July being the only months available to all of us, Garhwal was ruled out. Spiti it would be.

In 2000 an IMC expedition led by Paddy O’Leary made the first ascent of Kangla Tarbo, a 6,315-metre ice-capped dome in Western Spiti. In 1961 Joss Lynam, as part of joint British and Irish team, made the first ascent of Shigri Parbat, an inspiring 6,526-metre peak 9 kilometres to the north of Kangla Tarbo. Over the years both men had explored unknown valleys in the general area. Their photographs showed a landscape of desolate glacial valleys bordered by sheer ice walls and winding ridges, all dominated by sharp, irregular peaks — some menacing, others magnificent. The names of some of these valleys were enticing: Khamengar, Ratang, Gyundi, Bara Shigri. I asked Paddy for the name of any valley he knew that remained largely unexplored.

‘Try the Debsa,’ he said.

A few nights later I was in Joss’s attic, poring over photographs and book references of Spiti.

‘Does the Debsa valley ring any bells with you, Joss?’ I casually asked. He paused for a moment before answering.

‘It does. But I’ve no idea what it looks like.’

In the 1990s the best maps that Paddy or any other explorer could find were small scale 1:200,000 types, where summit positions and heights are vague and blunt ridges meander all over the page like strings of spaghetti. These are rudimentary documents that are often wrong. In the ’50s and ’60s when Joss explored Spiti, no maps had been made. With such paucity of knowledge, Joss took it upon himself to draw his own. Using a plane table and photographs he had taken, he painstakingly drew a clear and concise map not just of the many mountains and features of the region, but included information of all expeditions that had been there. Details such as leader’s names, exploration dates, the list of first and second ascents, and identified peak spot heights. It covered an area of 3,500 square kilometres. In time it was to prove remarkably accurate, being of value to various international mountaineers and turning up in their expedition reports and books. He rolled it out.

‘The Debsa’s about here,’ he said, his fingers circling a white space where all geographical indications had faded out.

‘So it’s unexplored then?’

‘Quite likely.’

This was looking good. The investigation continued. These days there is a wealth of information to be found on any topic in libraries and on the internet. For topographical research there are powerful tools, like Google Earth. In no time Darach and I were using this application, in a virtual Debsa, gliding over glaciers and peaks. I could see a few attractive six-thousanders all right, but Google Earth couldn’t tell me if they had been climbed. Further web trawling and research of numerous books and journals indicated this area was largely unexplored. Luckily, I was able to get an accurate military map of the area on a 1:50,000 scale. I picked out a handful of peaks as potential objectives. Confirmation that they were all virgin came from Harish Kapadia, a pioneering Mumbai-based climber and scholar on Indian Himalayan mountaineering. Needless to say the prospect of entering a little known valley system high in the Himalaya with a choice of several unclimbed six-thousanders excited all of us. Here we were, four lads who had never been to India before let alone the Himalaya, embarking on an adventure with the chance of being pioneers and making a bit of history.

A lot of work was done in the twelve months leading to departure. Responsibilities and tasks were evenly shared. Darach took charge of climbing gear and hill food requirements. Paulie looked after all flight arrangements and medicines. Craig did the book-keeping, organised insurance and, being the most familiar with electronics, managed the power and communication equipment. I took care of fundraising, visas, peak permission and all dealings with Rimo our agent, charged with arranging hotel accommodation, transport, porters, cooks, base camp tents and food.

Raising the money wasn’t easy. Over €14,000 was needed. Half of this came from our own pockets. The remainder from a Mountaineering Council of Ireland grant, club sponsorship and a welcome few thousand from Lowe Alpine.

Physical preparations weren’t overlooked. With Darach in Scotland most of the winter and spring, Craig, Paulie and I organised weekend training sessions in Wicklow. Friday nights we would camp in forests. Saturdays were spent hiking up and down hills with heavy rucksacks to build up endurance and fitness. Those nights saw us bivvying again in forests. And Sunday morning hikes were spurred on by the thought of a large fry-up in Roundwood. In Kerry the four of us practised river crossings and alpine climbing in The Reeks. In Scotland, Easter was spent climbing in Glencoe and snow-holing in the Grey Corries.

Time passed quickly and plans fell into place. A six week expedition schedule was teased out, with four weeks to be spent in the mountains. A target peak was agreed and permission to climb it obtained from the Indian Mountaineering Foundation (IMF). Funding was completed with four weeks to go. All equipment, medicines and clothing were sourced and leave of absence obtained from our employers. Six months in my case, giving plenty of time for the expedition and the overland trip home.

On 31 May 2008, armed with our rucksacks and four large army bags containing everything we needed, we left Dublin for India. An air of relief flowed through us now that the arduous preparations were over and a sense of excitement was felt for the unknown journey that lay ahead. Our Himalayan adventure had begun.

Two

Culture Shock

We landed in Delhi in the dead of night and were shuttled to the IMF headquarters in the quiet outskirts of town. We could have slept for days after the flight and would have, only for a family of peacocks crowing for attention all day outside. It was three in the afternoon, hot and uncomfortable. Nonetheless we were hungry and keen to get a first look at Delhi in daylight. A bumpy taxi ride into the city centre woke us up. The strong sun revealed the city’s characteristics. Wealth and poverty exist side by side; wide green parkland with grand colonial mansions next to broken dusty roads and hills of congested shanties. People seemed to be everywhere: on the streets driving all manner of smoky vehicles; riding bikes laden with gas and water bottles; on cracked pavements selling cigarettes, fruit, haircuts and shaves; peddling corn cobs from open grilles; squatting on corners in ones and twos, spitting and chewing; or lying in the shade, sleeping. On the whole, the city was a mass of chaotic humanity, surviving, hustling for trade.

The traffic as we had imagined was appalling. Delhi is one big free-for-all. Contraptions of all size and type vie for every available inch of road. Lurid green and yellow auto-rickshaws dart about like hunting piranhas. Taxis and cars muscle each other about at junctions and swarms of low-powered motorcycles, if not sandwiched between trucks, get shunted into gutters and on-coming vehicles. Horns blow incessantly, not to signal danger but to announce a driver’s intent to overtake. Danger is ever-present, obligating a heightened sense of alertness. Yet despite the heat, fumes, noise, chaos and congestion, people seldom get agitated. As we were to see in the weeks and months ahead, Indians are surprisingly tolerant of disorder. They manage it, as they inimitably manage other disorders, such as regular power failures, monsoon flooding and the lack of personal space. Unlike us Western Europeans, they put up with such inconveniences, accepting them as normal. Obviously, while here, our attitudes would need to change.

The city is a mix of the old, decrepit and new. There are many clusters of roadside hovels, made of crude brick, bits of wood and plastic. Miserable habitations with no running water or sanitation, and yet these places have an abundance of satellite dishes, considered necessary for proper modern living. Stroll around Connaught Place and you’ll fall into potholes and craters in the pavements. Look up and you’ll see jumbles of telephone wires wrapped around poles, impossible to maintain. Some hang limply on the ground and you know they’ll remain there. Buildings suffer similar neglect, with cracked plaster, broken doors and crumbling pillars. And yet in the same streets you’ll find spotless Western-style shops selling the latest gadgets, mobile phones and expensive clothes.

But despite such contrasts, the many people of Delhi compensate for the city’s shortcomings. People are friendly. They smile easily and are colourful. Men go about in light cotton clothes and sandals. Sikhs can be easily recognised by their bright, bulbous turbans, and women grace the eye with their striking saris and kurtas. We didn’t meet any bad characters during our stay in Delhi. Plenty of hawkers and half-chancers looking to relieve us of a few rupees all right, but no one that managed to sour our view of India and its people.

A meal was had in Connaught Place, followed by a stroll around the circus. It was hot and we needed to buy bottles of water. An easy job to do, you might think. Not quite. Normally it just takes a seller, a buyer, a price, the exchange of cash and a makeshift fridge. But Indians have other ideas. We found a water wallah easily enough. But no sooner had we gathered around his stall when three of his mates appeared out of the crowd, strengthening the customer proposition. Four bottles of water were shuffled around. One lad worked the fridge. Another wiped the bottles with a rag. A third, the stall-holder, engaged Darach for the money and the fourth presented both change and bottles. As it turned out, an attempt was made to short-change Darach who wasn’t yet familiar with the currency conversion, and struggled with the mental arithmetic. The result — confusion among us all. Argument with the wallah and his crew was limited as we had no Hindi and they had very little English. What had started out as a simple transaction had developed into a complex debate involving eight varying opinions, much fingering of loose coins and grubby notes, and pointing at four bottles which were steadily warming in the baking heat. It wasn’t as if we felt we were being robbed of our life savings, it was only water, after all. But eventually we settled on a price, completed the deal and walked off, scratching our heads. The wallah’s men disbanded, vanishing into the crowd as quickly as they

had formed. What had we learned here? For one, Indians are a curious lot, drawn to any commercial activity like magpies to shiny objects. It doesn’t matter if they’re not employees or part of the business. If there’s a hint of money and goods changing hands they perk up. And why not? A rupee or two might fall their way. And if not, then at least they were entertained.

As a country of 1.1 billion people, India has no shortage of people to allow businesses to get over-staffed and for the services they give to customers to be unnecessarily elaborate. We needed a lift back to the IMF, so we came upon two black and amber taxis parked on the inside ring of the circus, with several wallahs hanging around them. The cars were Hindustan Ambassadors; old-fashioned curvaceous vehicles modeled on the 1950s Morris Oxford. A throwback to the days of British influence. Anyhow, it took the efforts of five of these lads to get us on the road. The first was the boss, the eldest, who haggled a price. The second was our driver, who ushered us into one of the cars. He hopped into the front and tried starting it. It wouldn’t budge. A third, the ignition expert was summoned, and after some fiddling under the bonnet and tweaking of wires along the steering column, the engine cranked up. The driver hopped back in. A flurry of words followed and a fourth chap appeared to place a cushion behind the driver’s back in order to give him support. This same lad scampered off but returned sharply as he had forgotten his most critical task — removing the two sticks of incense which had been burning either side of the statuette of Shiva on the dashboard. A fifth remained on stand-by to deal with any other matters that might have delayed us. Thankfully though, that was it. As we crept out into the mayhem of Connaught Place, a half-dozen pairs of attentive brown eyes were trained on us. Sometime later at a T-junction, having steered our way through hazardous suburban traffic, the Ambassador conked out. It was dark. What’s more, driver had lost his way. More ignition tricks were performed, with the four of us outside pushing the boot in order to get the car moving again. Pot luck and guess work saw us home.

We were beginning to see that life in India is anything but straight-forward. Simple activities such as buying water or getting from A to B can develop into complex, colourful exercises. In India it seemed anything goes.

On our second day we met our Liaison Officer. Officially, the LO’s job is to keep an eye on us; to ensure us foreigners don’t become spies in the mountains, photographing roads, bridges or military installations. They also help by getting teams through police checkpoints and assisting with inner-line permits which are needed for access to politically sensitive areas close to the Tibetan border. Finally, they confirm success or failure on a chosen peak. Our designated LO was a tall, lean 27 year-old from Bangalore. Masthi had a law degree and came from a comfortable farming background. He was also a keen mountaineer and was eager to know as much as possible about us, our climbing style, our gear and our plans. He was a bit too eager for our liking. Earlier from Roger and Paddy, we learned the IMF had assigned LO’s who had little or no mountaineering experience and had little interest in gaining any either. We were hoping we would get a character like that — someone just willing to tag along and who wasn’t bothered about what we did or how we did it. Energetic, enthusiastic mountaineers who wanted to be an integral part of our climbing team was not what we had bargained for. We were a self-reliant unit of four.

We also met Nima, our man from Rimo. A likeable lad, responsible for the logistics of getting us and our supplies into the hills.

We visited several bazaars in the afternoon to buy batteries, toiletries and camera accessories. The searing sun sapped our energy as the day wore on. Little relief was found in the shade of merchants’ stalls, nor was it helped by the persistence of market children trying to sell us sunglasses we didn’t want. Mangy, pariah dogs loped around and mendicants abounded. The four of us stood out everywhere we went. Half of Delhi insisted on selling us something, anything. As the sun set we retired to Connaught Place, to overcome a day’s sweat and dust, and rejuvenate with a meal of dosa and glasses of cool lime soda.

Next morning Nima visited us at the IMF, bringing canisters of gas for our stay in the hills and an approach schedule. A day’s bus journey would take us to Shimla. Two nights there would allow us time to get inner-line permits for passage through Spiti as we would be close to the Tibetan border. Shimla’s markets would also provide us with stocks of fruit and vegetables. Then a two-day jeep trip north through Kinnaur would bring us to Spiti and the village of Sagnam. From there, with porters carrying our loads, we would make a three day march up the Parahio and Debsa valleys to reach our planned base camp at Thwak Debsa. After that we would be on our own for a month. Just the four of us: two cooks, our LO and the mountains. We were looking forward to it. It would be cooler and infinitely more peaceful in the mountains, far from the heat and noise of the city. A briefing with the IMF’s Director on what we could or couldn’t do in the mountains followed our chat with Nima. Later that afternoon, after checking our inventory and packing our kit, we headed into town for something to eat.

In Hinduism cows are sacred. Since Vedic times over 3,000 years ago, they have been associated with Providence and earthly compassion because of their milk, their dung which is used for fertiliser and fuel, and their leather for clothing and goods. Their meat is not to be eaten and neither are they to be harmed. They occupy a privileged place in Indian society and as such, their security and well-being is practically guaranteed. Cows all over the world are not known for any exceptional intelligence. However I believe most of the ones I came across during my time in India are well aware of their special status, and they do a good job exploiting it. So it was funny to see for the first time a small herd of six that night, on the busy road outside the IMF compound. As we made for a taxi, their leader casually wandered onto the main road and halted on the centre line. His mates followed slowly, lining up haphazardly behind him. Once stopped they wouldn’t budge. They weren’t your standard Friesian or Angus, timidly going from one field to another, but a team of grey, bony-shouldered hulks with sagging necks and ugly heads, caring little about anything going on around them. Car horns blared as drivers swerved manically to avoid them. Trucks jammed and small vehicles such as motorcycles and auto-rickshaws screeched to slow down before cautiously weaving past. Interestingly, no harsh words were to be heard. Ten full minutes of obstruction followed before the leader nonchalantly urinated on the line. Then he looked back at his herd, decided enough was enough, and led them back to the side in the same casual manner. This incident, typical of the way in which cows roam freely, is a fact of life all Indians seem to accept and one they do not try to change. In India, over-riding all authority, be it police, government or Brahmin priests, one thing is clear: cattle rule.

Wednesday 4 June. At 6 a.m. we loaded our bus and set out north, up the Grand Trunk road — a historical route between Calcutta and Peshawar — towards Shimla. A large movement of people was heading the same way, forming a jumble of multifarious vehicles travelling at different speeds. There were ox-carts and auto-rickshaws, horses, motorbikes, lumbering Tata trucks, tractors and trailers, battered cars and vans and dinged, overloaded buses. A maelstrom of choking fumes, blaring horns, speed and raised dust. It was as if Delhi had been plunged into war and all of its inhabitants shared a collective urge to evacuate suddenly, scrambling on the first vehicle they could find. We spotted several dilapidated Suzuki vans, operating as taxis, stuffed with dark bodies. Deathtraps in motion. I couldn’t resist a jibe:

‘Hey Darach, look over there,’ I said pointing to one. ‘Does it remind you of Scotland? People live in Suzukis here too.’

We were swept along, absorbed by the tide.

The billboards along the road advertise luxurious city apartments, flashy mobile phones and stylish Japanese cars for the discerning professional, but behind them you can find decaying brick factories, ox-drawn carts and ragged road dwellers who could well be from the Middle Ages.

The road was a hive of commercial activity. From the comfort of our seats we watched hundreds of people plying a trade of one sort or another in the ditches and side roads. Bare-backed men toiled in metal fabricating shops. Women attended fruit stalls. Potters spun jugs and urns. Mechanics beavered about skeletal cars and motorcycles jacked up on blocks. There was much more: tailors, timber merchants, clothes washers, barbers, chai wallahs and so on. All of them pitching their products and services out of makeshift huts and tumbledown shops. Everyone seemed to be busy and have something to sell. You could be forgiven for thinking the many ragged beggars had a sought-after trade.

Despite the roughness of the Grand Trunk road, with its shanties, wood-smoke, clamour and dirt, a great sense of life is present. Compared to our high Western living standards, most people here are poor. But their urge for survival and strength to turn a few rupees any way they can is great. Moreover, from the calm expression on their faces it is clear no one complains about their lot. This is the natural order of things in their world and they accept it. Their dignity is commendable. The realisation of how lucky and easy we have it at home in comparison wasn’t lost on us.

We made our way through the flat farmlands of Haryana, passing wheat fields and haystacks and rice sprouting in wet paddies. Women dressed in saris were bent over crops. It rained heavily as we approached the wooded hills of Shimla.

Masthi irritated us at dinner. In his eagerness to impose ideas and a measure of authority, he insisted we have briefing sessions each night to review what we had done each day and to plan for future days.

‘We’re all part of one team, working together, with one objective,’ became his recurring mantra. Assuming the role of a drill sergeant, he declared what time we should all get up at and have breakfast. Now none of us wanted to listen or put up with any of this nonsense. We all knew one another well, we worked effectively together and we solved problems democratically and so far, without dissent. His muscling in like this only unsettled us. We were still only getting to know him. Our collective view was if he didn’t change his tune quickly, he might jeopardise the expedition, if not the spirit of it. Quietly after dinner, Craig, Paulie, Darach and I agreed we’d put up with him until we reached base camp. After that, everything would be dictated on our terms.

In addition to the four of us, Masthi and Nima, our party was completed by the arrival of our kitchen staff, Raj Kumar and his nephew Manbahadur. Both lads hail from the Khumbu region of Nepal. Their genial nature, their willingness to please and their smiling faces made a good impression on us. They also brought pedigree to the team. Raj had been chief cook on six Chris Bonington expeditions. We had heard good reports about him and he was much in demand. These two didn’t have to be motivated or told what to do, the following day or any other. We didn’t have to worry about them. No sooner had Nima handed them a shopping list when they disappeared into the labyrinth of Shimla’s market, hunting out the best fruit and vegetables to last us in the back of beyond.

Getting inner-line permits wasn’t easy. They were necessary to allow us get through police checkpoints near the Indo-Tibetan border. Nima had arranged a fixer to get our papers processed in the office of the District Commissioner at the top end of the town. Masthi was actually meant to do this. But Nima seemed to know what he was doing so we let him and the fixer get on with it.

Meanwhile the market became our morning’s distraction. It is a jumble of hundreds of stalls perched on a steep hill, with everything you can imagine on sale: silks, woollen clothes, carpets, electrical goods, tools and furniture, books, belts, bags, pictures, leather goods and so on. Tantalising spices flavoured the air as we moved by large hessian sacks of clove, cinnamon and ginger. Our taste buds were stirred on seeing stacks of sweet red jalebi, or a cook prodding hot cauldrons of bubbling samosa. Balti-looking porters lugged heavy chests of grain and vegetables on their backs up the rain-soaked hill, and two bare-footed sadhus ringing handbells, padded from shop to shop seeking alms. Above our heads, acrobatic grey monkeys clambered over walls and telephone wires, stopping occasionally to look down and size up potential food raids. Enviously we watched them, their effortless climbing agility and balance.

We were pleasantly surprised by the atmosphere of the place. The streets were crowded, and it didn’t help they were all narrow and winding. Nonetheless a sense of relaxation was felt. Business was colourful and enjoyable and, unlike the bazaars of Delhi, we didn’t encounter any hard sellers.

Shimla was put on the map by the British in the 19th century. Desperate to escape the stifling heat of the Indian plains, they effectively governed their sub-continental empire from here during the summer months. The town’s climate of cool mountain air, grey cloud and frequent rain must have given them a reassuring sense of home. But this was not what we wanted. Our hope was for clear skies and dry weather, not so much in Shimla, but to where we were headed in Spiti. Inevitably we were going to get rain showers in the Debsa. So with this in mind Craig and Masthi took the task of buying umbrellas for all of us. Many dreary wet days spent on campsites in the Alps taught us the importance of umbrellas. I had thought we would get conservative, black ones, appropriate for the weather. Instead the lads returned with large multi-coloured ones, the kind favoured by the golfing fraternity. Huddled under these brollies we must have looked a strange sight to the locals and monkeys; four glum-looking white blokes and a tall, shivering Indian. Mountaineers we weren’t. More like neglected caddies at a second-rate Pro-Am tournament in rain-soaked Ballybunion.

By midday there was no sign of the permits. After lunch, still no sign. We needed them before five as we were leaving the next day. Nima’s fixer was showing no sign of urgency. What’s more we had learned that the District Commissioner, who had been in the job years, was retiring this day and a new man was taking over. On hearing this and having listened to Roger and his stories of tediously slow Indian bureaucracy, I started to worry. I could picture what might happen. Our papers would languish in a junior clerk’s in-tray to be forgotten about. The new DC would be busy dealing with the old one all day and handling fussy subordinates desperate to make good first impressions. Our papers wouldn’t see a middle level manager’s desk for days, perhaps weeks. Meanwhile we would be hanging around Shimla an extra day, Friday, followed by the weekend, watching our schedule slipping. Our porters, who Nima had arranged to meet us in Sagnam, would be waiting, getting bored, perhaps wandering off, convinced we had abandoned them.

Three o’clock and still no movement. We stood in the main corridor of the DC’s building, with low and mid-ranking officials buzzing about. Plenty of activity but nothing happening. Just the fixer trying to placate me by explaining the chain of command and who needed to do what to get our permits issued. Nima innocently went along with it. It was great, but when Masthi joined in and started lecturing me on the machinations of Indian bureaucracy and the virtues of waiting, I came close to losing it.

‘Masthi, I know all about bureaucracy and how it strangles you. I don’t need excuses and I don’t need delays. Now get out of my way!’

We managed to get the permits that evening. A little charm and diplomacy on my part to a quiet, middle-aged woman in a side office did the trick. That woman was the DC’s personal assistant. In my view the PA is the second most important person in any organisation. Just after five we were handed our papers. I could have kissed her before leaving.

The rain continued the following morning. A 280-kilometre journey over twisting mountain roads into Kinnaur meant an early start. All hands loaded the two jeeps and we set off, grinding up through the misty Shimla hills. The road a mixture of gravel and potholes. Dhabas — dark, pokey grub shops — dotted the route. Around ten we stopped at one of these places for the drivers to have breakfast. It was on a bend, overlooking a valley of rich green farmland. Not wishing to risk belly-ache by eating, Craig and I opted to hang around outside, admiring the view. We were all very conscious of the risk of food sickness which could be detrimental to any expedition, particularly at the start of one. We chose our eating houses carefully. We only drank bottled water and wiped our hands with alcohol before any meal. The other lads, the cooks, drivers, Masthi and Nima, with stronger constitutions, could take their chances in the dhabas. Not us.

Anyway, Craig and myself walked to the back of the building, down a stairway and into a field. Stretched into the distance were lush terraces filled with drills of potatoes, peas, apples and cherrys. Homesteads stood between allotments. It was all quite pretty and well organised. Some moments went by as we took it all in. There was nothing unusual in all this. It was only when I looked down next to my feet, at a familiar looking plant with narrow serrated leaves and a pale stalk, did my eyes open. I bent down, tore off a strip and smelled it. Musty weed. There was no mistake, it was cannabis. And not just at my feet. It was growing all around me, in patches here and there, down the field and mixed in with the crops. Thick, bushy stuff everywhere. I had never seen so much grass growing so freely. And it wasn’t being farmed, it was wild and thriving. Acres of it.

Right, start harvesting, I thought. I picked some leaves and held them in a bundle, thinking they would make for a good distraction the odd night at base camp. What a gift. It was all so easy — so convenient. Then came the recoil of doubt. A few spliffs wouldn’t do any harm but if it became a routine every night and possibly every day, then we might not get much climbing done. Our expedition would be wasted as we would be wasted. This presented a tough choice. Twenty years earlier a free-spirited Gerry would have harvested the entire crop. But here I was now, showing signs of responsibility and maturity that can only come about by wisdom and the onset of middle age. A decision was needed, one which I did not want to make.

‘What do you think Craig, will we bring a bagful?’ I asked, hoping he might decide for me.

No such luck.

‘I dunno, Gerry. Whatever you think, it’s up to yourself.’

Wonderful.

I looked around. The ganja was everywhere. Meanwhile above, the other boys were emerging from the dhaba. Jeep doors swung open and slammed shut. Engines started up. Shouts went out and we had to get moving again. I hesitated some more. Eventually, reluctantly, maturity won out. The weed stayed in the ground. I thought, God, how I’ve changed.

Three

With Gods on our Side

The clouds parted and the temperature rose as the day wore on. Our drivers, two young Shimla lads, were skillful, continually dodging potholes and wayward vehicles. We passed many gangs of workers repairing the road from damage wreaked by the harsh Himalayan winter. Men and women toiling with picks and shovels, shifting loads and filling holes. The reek of hot asphalt. Clouds of dust billowing in the air. There were souls breaking piles of rock with lump-hammers, swinging and smashing, like prisoners in a chain-gang. It was a miserable sight. Not far from each gang we noticed clusters of makeshift tents; dirty plastic sheeting crudely held together with sticks and randomly placed stones. These were the worker’s homes. These crews, often whole families, live out each summer in these forlorn spots, eking a wage before the encroachment of winter and a return to villages and towns. None of us envied them. Their lives are hard and, as low castes, their chances of progress in Indian society is slim, if not impossible. According to Masthi, the barriers in India’s caste system today are slowly diminishing, but looking at these unfortunates, it was hard to believe it. Nevertheless, just like those of the Grand Trunk road, these people were unperturbed. Their work was rotten, their living conditions primitive by anyone’s standard, but they accepted both with great equanimity.

From Shimla there’s only one route to Spiti. This is the modern road that runs parallel to the old Hindustan-Tibet trading route. It winds its way along the Satluj river, passing through gorges, steep cliffs and formidable man-made rocky overhangs. The Satluj is one strand of a major river system; the source of life and power for millions on the Indian sub-continent. It rises at Lake Manasarovar in Western Tibet, an area of deep spiritual importance to Buddhists and Hindus alike. From here it flows west, carving valleys through the Himalaya, gaining strength. In Himachal Pradesh it is fed by the Spiti and Baspa rivers, the increased power of which is enough to drive the turbines of the state’s hydro-electric plants. Continuing west, it merges with the Beas at Amritsar, irrigating the expansive rice and wheat fields of the Punjab. Then it veers south to join the Indus before entry to the Arabian Sea.

On the road, our spirits were high. We were all glad to be out of the city, above the plains and looking forward to the weeks ahead. Talk flowed freely. Indians, Nepalese and Irish got to know each other and a relaxed atmosphere prevailed. Relations with Masthi were softening. Our first impressions of him in Delhi may have been harsh; I knew he meant well for the team. I for one was starting to like his company. It was good to be able to chat freely on any subject, to hear his opinions and to increase my knowledge on all things Indian. Our conversations were lengthy, fluid affairs, touching many different subjects: mountaineering, politics, law, corruption, religion and the caste system. On religion, Hinduism particularly interested me, with its multitude of colourful gods and stories. We spent the night at Kalpa, and shortly after leaving the following morning, we stopped by the roadside temple of Durga. Durga is an avatar of Shiva’s wife Parvati. Like some other Hindu gods, she has several arms and legs to help her fight off demons. To the devout she is considered a warrior and, when angered, takes the form of Kali, a dark-skinned grotesque creature with a bloody cleaver, a belt of severed limbs and a garland of human skulls. Her colourful temple overlooking the Satluj is popular among travellers seeking protection from all hazards of the roads, rivers and peaks of the region. As Christians, lapsed or otherwise, we looked on as people conducted solemn pujas — offerings of prayer and money — in front of the doll-like statue. Hanging bells were rung by visitors on arrival and departure to ward off unwanted spirits and each of the faithful received a sprinkling of rice from a priest to cast on the altar. The priest also daubed tilaks — red marks on the forehead — which is a symbol of the inner, spiritual eye and part of the ritual of paying homage to the divine. All of us except Nima, being the sole Buddhist, participated in puja.

Everything was going well for us so far. We were making good progress. No one was sick. All permits had been obtained. Porters had been arranged and not a sour word was to be heard among us. The only worry left was the weather, something out of our control. Thinking a prayer might help, I took Masthi to one side.

‘Masthi, when you’re up there with Durga, do us a favour and ask her to have a word with Indra, the weather god. We could do with dry, settled weather for the next four weeks. You know what I mean?’

‘OK Gerry. I cannot promise you anything. But I will ask her for you.’

‘Good man.’

We continued along the road through Kinnaur, criss-crossing the brown, racing Satluj at various points. Rugged mountains of a similar hue stood all around us. After the many months of speculation and preparation, it finally felt good to be in the Trans-Himalaya. Gradually the verdant orchards and pastures of Kinnaur gave way to the barren, open mountains of Spiti. Spiti is a land of sharp contrasts. From vast blue skies to wide upland devoid of vegetation. Arid brown earth overwhelms tiny patches of farmland centred around villages. Small green fields are lovingly tended. The whole effect looks like emeralds on the surface of the moon. Wheat, rice, peas, apples, barley and mustard seed are grown in these fields. Surrounding them, dry stone walls are capped with thorn bushes to keep foraging bharals and ibex out.

Moving from Kinnaur deeper into Spiti, the landscape isn’t the only thing that changes. Hinduism gives way to Buddhism. The signs of which are plentiful. Prayer flags are threaded along bridges. Mani walls stand by the roadside and chortens sit by the outskirts of villages. Physically, Spitians differ from their Kinnauri neighbours by their Tibetan features; flat round faces and almond-shaped eyes. Their language is separate also, Spitian having evolved from a Tibetan dialect over a thousand years ago.

We got through police checkpoints unhindered in the afternoon. At tea-time our convoy pulled into Tabo — a fort-like monastery complex, founded in 996 AD. In the millennium since, Tabo has been a centre of Tibetan scripture and learning, and a hub of trade between India, Tibet and Central Asia. As dinner was cooking we took a look around. Few monks were about. Through the courtyard, past thick clay walls, Nima led us into the main temple. A red statue of Buddha, seated on a throne of lotus and flanked by lions, made up the inner temple. Around it, painted on the walls, were powerful images of Bodhisattvas and other deities, as well as some fiendish types. The enclosure, the darkness and the sense of forced self-examination was unsettling, but not new. As a Catholic, albeit a recalcitrant one, I was used to such challenges. It reminded me of familiar lessons of living a good life and being rewarded with entry to heaven, or leading a bad life and being relegated to hell. On the face of it, this was all relatively acceptable to me, and acceptable to most Buddhists, who profess similar views.

The word Spiti means ‘Middle Land’. Middle because it lies across the main range of the Himalaya, known as the Trans-Himalaya; a dry, barren place. Spiti has been of huge political and strategic significance for many centuries. It is surrounded on all sides by former competitive empires: Ladakh to the north, Kinnaur to the south, Tibet to the east and Kulu to the west. Records of foreign invasions stretch back a thousand years, with Tibetan chieftains having dominated for much of the 11th to 19th centuries. However their rule was interrupted, although temporarily, by successive invasions of Ladakhis, Kulus, Baltis and Sikhs until the British, by the Treaty of Amritsar, wrested control in 1821. It is interesting to note that throughout these times the Spitians themselves never sought to fight any aggressor, or mount any serious resistance. Instead they cleverly exploited their environment, preferring to flee to shelter at high ground as their villages were plundered, allowing the harsh Spitian winter to decimate the invaders.